


Etta

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Ficlet, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil proves to Tauriel she needn’t go far for satisfaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Etta

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Урок (Etta)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481097) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thranduil eating Tauriel out until she has an explosive orgasm” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22171371#t22171371). (Titled because this makes me think of Thranduil sneering Neon Hitch’s [“[Dwarves] can fuck you good, but I can fuck you better”~)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0Zb8G8rE1g)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Somehow, she didn’t quite expect this, and at first, it’s shock that pins her to the floor. She doesn’t fight—even though she bid it _rough_ —but lets him bind her wrists together in thick, cold manacles that come from the ancient times—the ropes they use now are too soft for this. She only squirms when he grabs her waist, pulls her to the floor, slams her down and rips her tights from her. He undress with alarming speed and skill, nothing truly _torn_ and nothing fully taken away, only opened, disheveled, leaving her exposed from stem to sternum, her heart beating heavy in her chest. The next thing she knows, her legs are over his shoulders. His long fingers are digging tight into the meat of her thighs, and she’s pulled taut with her hair dragging out behind her. 

The second his tongue shoves inside her, she’s gasping, arching up. A part of her wants to let out an undignified, _“my lord?”_ and the rest wants to cry, _“yes!”_ If she had her hands free, she’d reach down to thread them in his silken hair, but instead she can only feel the whisper-light brush of it along her inner thighs. He splays out along the floor, somehow still graceful, cat-like, prone and powerful. He buries his face between her legs and looks up, his icy eyes catching hers. She quivers, almost afraid. But more of how he’ll _ruin_ her—she’ll _never_ be able to leave once she’s had him: she can see that promise in his eyes. She thought a dwarf could please her. She hadn’t had a _king_.

He swore that to her, and that’s why she’s here, on her back in the cells she often guards, bound like a prisoner. He forbade her to go, and he swore he couldn’t maker her stay, but if he could prove that an elf could please her any better, she would never leave. It was meant as a taunt but taken as a challenge. He snarled the question—did she want it _rough_?—and she breathed, shaky with his warm body tight against hers, _“yes.”_

She’s no longer so sure of her convictions. Thranduil was merciless in claiming her, kissing her and biting her, leaving bruises all down her neck before he threw her to the floor, and his mouth is no less ruthless between her legs. He makes to _mark_ her, his teeth scraping along the hypersensitive lips of her opening, his tongue slipping between and his lips the juxtaposition: feather-soft around her slit. When he shoves forward, he _sucks_ , the pressure making her skin flush pink to red, his saliva mixing with her juices as they dribble out: he dips into her and drags her shame to light. His tongue is long, thick, _strong_ , and when it curls, she _feels_ it, teasing her inner walls and lapping at her tender flesh. He shifts often, first lower, then higher, then diving in at the bottom, as far as he can go, and running up to flatten along the buried body of her clit. Latching around it, he suckles the outer nub, and Tauriel’s head tosses back, throat crackling, noises going hoarse. Her thighs are trembling around him, her fingers gripping vainly to her chains. The stone floor is _cold_ but his mouth is so _hot_ , and his grip on her legs is bruising—whatever lovers she takes after, if she can, will see all his marks. Perhaps she doesn’t mind. 

She’s the consort of a _king_. The dwarves no longer seem so tantalizing—she didn’t know she could have _this_ , right beneath her own stars. He obliges her wants, her fantasies, even those she never spoke—she should’ve known better than to think he couldn’t see them in her eyes. He devours her, eats from her and drinks from her with a ravenous hunger, always plunging back for more. His pace is rapid, each stroke of his tongue strong. He reaches farther in her than seems possible, or maybe the pleasure just ricochets that deeply. Her channel spasms around his attentions, clenching tight and still wanting _more_. If this is only his tongue, how thoroughly could he fuck her with his fingers, his cock? He would have to tie her down harsher, or she would buck up like a helpless dog, unable to obey his orders to _lie still and take it_.

She would hump him now, but he holds her firm. He pins her to the floor and fucks her with his mouth, spearing her open—she’s so _loose and wet_ ; she could probably take the head of his staff if he wished, and she would: she’d take _anything_ from him. How could she have ever doubted? Thranduil has always been _gorgeous_ , the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and she used to dream of kneeling at his throne and suckling his cock, but learned fast that a lowly servant as her couldn’t even hope to lick his boots, and now he licks her pussy, and though he _wrecks_ her, turns her wanton and debauched, he falls with her. He fucks her on the floor of his cells like an animal. But she thinks even a warg couldn’t fuck this hard. 

She tries to resist, she really does. Her heart hammers in her chest, lungs shuddering around her constant gasps and moans, her arms and torso writhing in place but her legs held too steadfast to move. She can run from one end of the Greenwood to the other without breaking a sweat, but now she’s beaded in. Her breasts rise and fall greatly, blocking her view of him one minute and revealing his beauty the next. What little rags of clothes still clung to her chest slither down, slicked along her sides, most of her body exposed to his hungry eyes. She wants him to taste _all_ of it, but though he varies where he touches her pussy, he never strays too far away. He’s busy thrusting his tongue inside her and cruelly pulling back again. 

A part of her wants to deny this. To bite her lip and cry that she won’t be taken—because she _wants_ to be taken, again and again and again; she wants him to prove that he can fuck better than a dwarf, harder than an orc, more intoxicating than a dragon. But it’s too much, far too much, it feels so _good_ and she’s overwrought with it, her skin on fire in every little part, and she tenses like a bolt of lighting, _shrieking_ her desire. She explodes in his mouth. Fills it, sloshes into it, her channel convulsing wildly, but he just drinks from her with languid thirst, while she trembles and cries, her head pounding, dizzy, weightless and barely able to see, to think—so _good_ , her marvelous king, whom all she ever wanted from was one sweet kiss. 

She falls down in a tumultuous mess, tremours twisting all her nerves. He’s licked her through it, and he only stops when her voice has broken and she’s panting, whimpering. Her legs curl pathetically around him, but he wrenches up and out of them, leaving her dripping pussy to leak down against the floor. 

She expects him to stand, dress and turn away, leave here there in her own juices with her red hair stuck to her face. But he slinks over her, up on all fours, feral and victorious, his smirk so very beautiful. He wipes his mouth off crudely on his wrist and lets her watch, let’s her see that he isn’t so dainty as she might’ve thought. He always was their greatest warrior. 

She murmurs, “My lord—” but cuts off in a cry—he’s reached two fingers down to shove inside her, and the shock of it makes her jolt—they’re firm, hard, unforgiving, but she’s so loose and wet that it hardly matters, and she sucks at them, hungry again, so spent but so greedy for him. She tries to jerk at her bonds, wanting desperately to hold him, but it only drags her body up, the chain taut. He grins and grabs her leg, yanking her back down. She doesn’t try to move again, just watches his free hand return languidly to her side, the other imbedded in her entrance. He presses suddenly against her clit, and she jerks as if struck, contorting and whining lewdly. 

He bears down on her, his gold-white hair slipping over his broad shoulder to slide along her cheek, and he hisses in her ear, “Have you learned your lesson?”

She looks at him. Her eyes are hazy, dilated. In one treacherous moment of defiance, she breathes, “No.” Because she wants this _again_.

He smirks like he knows, and he wrenches his fingers out to slam his cock inside her, claiming her mouth to swallow the scream.


End file.
